“It’s not my fault, Dad, honest.”
“I know, Billy. Basher’s always had it in for me, and he doesn’t like colored folk. This is his doing. I tried to stay out of it, but things have gone too far.”
“You knew they were giving me the treatment?”
“I expected something, but not this. Good-natured ribbing is one thing, but disrespect and threats are another.”
“What are we going to do? Can you talk to Basher? Or should I quit?” I still didn’t know if Dad knew about Tree, but he pretty much knew everything sooner or later.
“Billy, there’s more going on here than meets the eye. You can’t quit, and I can’t do anything with Basher. He’s beyond words.”
“Sure I can quit,” I said, indignant. “I know you’ll be mad, but you don’t know what it’s like!”
“I know exactly what it’s like,” Dad said. “It’s not about you. Basher is trying to get Mr. Jackson fired. That’s why he and his pals are riding you. They want to prove he’s an incompetent supervisor. As soon as you overreact, it will go to the chief. If you quit, it will be more evidence that a Negro can’t be expected to supervise a white. Either way, they’ll lay the blame on Mr. Jackson. I’m sorry, Billy.”
“Oh,” was all I could say. “You mean Mr. Jackson could lose his job, unless I knuckle under and take it?”
“That’s about it, Billy. I’m sorry, I had no idea it would come to this. I never would have gotten the job for you if I had any notion it would get you in the middle of things. Or that it would cost young Jackson his chance.”
“You know about Tree?”
“Mr. Jackson told me today. He said it would be best for everything to be out in the open. I knew he had a son, but didn’t give it much thought. That was my fault, and I told him so. Why didn’t you tell me that first day?”
“I don’t know,” I said, squirming in the kitchen chair and finding the linoleum suddenly fascinating. “I felt bad about it, but I wanted the job. And I didn’t want you to feel bad either, after setting everything up.”
“Sometimes things don’t work out as we planned, Billy. What really matters is what we do when faced with the consequences.” He finished off the whiskey in his glass and waited.
“I guess I’m going to work tomorrow.”
“Good boy.”
I looked at my watch. It was late, time to get Kaz and Big Mike to the railroad station.
“What happened?” Big Mike said. “Did you go back to work?”
“Too involved to get into now,” I said. “More of the same at first, and then it got worse.”
“But when did you meet Tree?” Kaz said. “You must tell us the rest.”
“Later,” I said as I settled the bill with Jack Monk. Truth was, I wanted the story to end right there, with my father’s approval settling over me in the kitchen, the aroma of whiskey and his aftershave lingering as he left, the sound of his heavy shoes on the stairs as clear and true as the pub door closing behind me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The small room and lumpy bed at the Hog’s Head was more than made up for by Mrs. Monk’s breakfast. Warm bread, fresh preserves, and strong tea put things into perspective. I hadn’t slept well, but the bed was only partly to blame. I was worried about Diana and her quest to report the truth about the extermination camps far above her place in the chain of command. In my experience, truth and warfare made for a volatile combination, and there were plenty of politicians who only let the truth see the light of day if it reflected well on them.
I’d wanted to talk to her about that, to help prepare her for what I knew would be a disappointment. But all I’d left her with was a few lines scribbled on paper.
Memories of that summer in 1936 had run through my mind all night as well. Funny, it wasn’t all the crap I had to take from Basher and his buddies that stayed with me. It was Tree, and how for a short time we became best buddies, until the harsh world of grown men and their hatreds turned our way and ruined everything. Well, ruined Tree’s life. I was white, and all right, so it was a bump in the road for me. He had to get back, way back.
I forced the thoughts and worries out of my mind as I buttoned my trench coat up tight and stepped out into the misty rain. The day was a refreshing change from yesterday’s chill. It was warm and damp, the kind of early spring morning that holds the promise of growth to come. I stood on the bridge overlooking the canal and watched the path that led along the embankment, toward the Millers’ house. An old man in a rain slicker walked his dog, and waved to a woman with a terrier on the other side.
They looked like regulars. Dog walkers who went out the same time each day, rain or shine. Dogs needed walking at night too. I left the bridge and walked down Bartholomew Street, with its brick buildings close to the narrow road and shoppers lining up beneath umbrellas at a butcher’s shop. There must have been rumors of meat. There was a police car outside of the Newbury Building Society, where Inspector Payne and I were to meet.
“Captain Boyle,” Payne said as soon as I entered. “This is Michael Flowers, manager of the society.”
“The Newbury, as we like to call it,” Flowers said, extending his hand. “Terrible news about Neville. Hard to believe, isn’t it? Well, not in your line of work, perhaps.” Michael Flowers was middle-aged, short, balding, and obviously nervous about detectives on his turf. He wore a pencil-thin mustache and an insincere smile.
“We do encounter it upon occasion,” Inspector Payne said. “We’d like a look at Mr. Neville’s office, if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly, certainly,” Flowers said, nearly pushing us out of the lobby. “Please follow me.”
“Is this a bank?” I asked him as he led us up two flights of stairs. “I’m not sure what a building society is.”
“Not exactly a bank, more like a credit union, which I believe you have in America. Building societies were originally organized by a small group of people who wanted to save for a mortgage. A cooperative financial institution, owned by the members, operated for their own benefit. So not like a bank, if you take my meaning.”
“What was Stuart Neville’s job?” I asked, as Flowers unlocked the door to a small office. Small and nearly empty.
“He evaluated building plans, mortgage applications, that sort of thing. He was often on the road, making visits. He’d come in to write up his reports, but he didn’t spend a lot of time here.” I could see why. One wooden desk and chair. One sidetable holding a typewriter. A filing cabinet, a hat rack, and a bookshelf crammed with directories, atlases, annual reports of the Newbury Building Society, and some really fascinating reading on building regulations.
Payne sat at the desk and looked through the files and papers scattered in no particular order. “What was Neville working on before he died?”
“He’d finalized two applications, one for a shopkeeper in Kintbury, and another for a couple in Hungerford. The couple’s was approved, but the shopkeeper’s application was not,” Flowers said. “Although I’m certain that could have had nothing to do with the murder.” He nearly giggled as he contemplated death by mortgage.
“I thought you said he traveled quite a bit. Those two are certainly close by,” I said.
“Oh, it all depends on our members and where they’re from. We’ve expanded a great deal. In the old days, when all the original members of a building society received their mortgages, the society would disband. Job done, you see? But the Newbury has been so successful that we’ve stayed in business and grown. Still a cooperative venture, though.”
“So Neville wouldn’t travel to meet with a stranger, then?” Payne said.
“No, he only worked on applications from existing members,” Flowers said. “And marketing was not his department, so there would be little reason for him to do business with anyone not known to us.”
I opened the top drawer of the file cabinet. Folders were neatly arranged and labeled by name and date. “These are all from 1940. Where are his current files?”